


A Killer Made

by TheExplodingPen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Also she takes none of Jack's shit, Ana is stoic, Convenient snowstorms, Dont hold your breath for another chapter, Gabriel is still Reaper, Genetic Engineering, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, The author has taken great liberties with overwatch's history, Torture, Violence, Wounds, don't question the geography
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-10-20 06:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10656405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheExplodingPen/pseuds/TheExplodingPen
Summary: Jack just wants to save lives, so he enlists in a program designed to create heroes. But too often, people think that a hero is a soldier. He's not a killer, so he flees, retreating deep into the mountains to avoid ever going back. But one winter morning nearly a decade later, the discovery of a broken man in a snowdrift changes everything, and as Jack learns more about his mystery guest, he has to choose between caring for himself, or saving another from his same fate.





	1. Gold and Silver

Sometimes, Jack dreams.

More often he has nightmares, but sometimes he dreams about being fourteen and blissfully ignorant. Other times, he dreams about dying, not horrifically or painfully, but peacefully, in his sleep, with children and grandchildren around him, and the slow, steady sound of his heart beating its last.

In his nightmares, he never dies. He watches, helpless, as rulers rise and fall, wars are fought and won and lost, and those who deserve to have immortality so much more than he does take a bullet in the neck. 

The nightmares always send him bolting up in bed, with a cold sweat beading on the back of his neck. Even now, nearly a decade after his discharge from the program that made him who he is, he can’t sleep more more than four hours at a time. Like the gaudy silver and gold tattoo on the inside of his wrist, it’s a constant reminder of a past he’d rather forget.

Standing, Jack stretches, the sound of his bones cracking back into place disturbingly loud in the small room. Yawning, he stuffs his cold feet into the pair of slippers by the bed and walks out past the curtain that serves as the separation between his bedroom and the rest of his tiny cabin.

Outside, the snow continues to fall softly, and inside, Jack puts on a pot of coffee.

* * *

The paths he’s dug through the feet of snow have a foot of powder covering them from the previous night’s snowfall. It’s annoying, but not terribly inconvenient. The paths still lead him to the traps he’s set, although the single rabbit he collects from them is more than a little disappointing. Winter hunting usually ends up being scarce, but he’d rather not dip into his supply of frozen food quite yet.

It’s after checking the fourth (empty) trap that Jack realizes something is off. He’s familiar with his woods, and even though the snow changes the landscape day by day, he knows them well enough to realize that something is out of place. Leaving his path, he cuts through the trees towards an oddly shaped pile of white.

It takes Jack a moment to realize that the shape he’s looking at is a man, half-buried in the fresh snow. His eyes are closed and he’s lying still, but the small puddle of melted snow near the man’s mouth is evidence enough that Jack isn’t too late. Falling to his knees, the hunter starts pushing the snow away as quickly as he can, .

The man revealed has skin dark like the branches of the trees surrounding them. His clothes are dark as well, soaked through by melted snow, and completely inappropriate for the weather. Jack doesn’t remember the last time he saw someone in just a muscle shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Hey.”

Jack’s voice is rough from disuse, and cracks from just the one word. He winces, coughs, and tries again. 

 

“Hey, you.” This time, he pats the man’s face with an open hand, trying to wake him. 

Nothing.

Now that the snow is gone, Jack can see the rise and fall of the man’s chest. It’s a subtle movement, but it’s another indication that a recovery could be possible. But for any of that to happen, Jack needs to get the guy out of the cold and into some decent clothes.

Shoving one arm under the man’s shoulders, Jack pulls him away from the trench his body has created. The man still doesn’t stir, but Jack has had enough practice carrying the carcasses of his kills home, so he slides his other arm under the man’s knees and lifts. 

Getting to his feet is a challenge, but Jack ends up cradling the unconscious man against his chest as he wades his way through the snow, back towards his cabin. It’s unlikely the rest of his traps have anything in them, but the guy in his arms needs a warm place, and he needs it fast. 

The walk back is slow, but Jack does make it there eventually. As soon as he can, he lays the man down on the floor, just inside the door, and kneels down next to him. A knife comes out of its sheath on his belt and without hesitating, Jack cuts through the soaking wet clothing the man is wearing. The shirt goes first, but as soon as JAck slices down the right sleeve, he stops.

The man has a tattoo on the inside of his right wrists. It’s gold and silver, conspicuous but oddly beautiful against the man’s dark skin. And it’s exactly identical to the one on Jack’s wrist.

Jack’s mouth settles into a hard line, and he cuts away the rest of the man’s clothing quickly, tossing it aside. From the looks of it, the stranger is from the same facility Jack is, but that could mean any one of a million things. He could be an escapee, a graduate, or someone looking for Jack himself. But whatever he is, JAck is going to give him a chance to explain before he makes any decisions. 

Once the man’s wet clothes are in a pile by the door, Jack dries him off and carries him to the bed, piling as many quilts as he can on top of the guy. Getting him warmed up is priority one. 

Once he’s sure the man’s settled, Jack goes over to the wood stove and lights it. The room starts warming up immediately, and Jack takes a moment to sit by the fire, warming his hands before stripping out of his outdoor clothes. He doesn’t have much, but he tracks down a pair of sweats and sets them by the bed, so the man has something to change into when he wakes up.

They keyword there is _when_. Now Jack just has to wait.

* * *

It’s about two hours later when the mystery man bolts straight up in bed, panic in his eyes.

“Whoa, there. Easy.” Jack stands, holding his hands out in a way that won’t be taken as aggression. “It’s all right. You’re safe.”

The man doesn’t say anything, but his eyes dart everywhere, taking in the entire scene, before fixing on Jack, watching him, unblinking.

Slowly, Jack walks forward, until he’s close enough to reach out, and place a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. “Easy, now. Don’t go overexerting yourself. You’re damn lucky to be alive.”

Jack watches as the man’s eyes flicker from his face to the door, to the windows, and then back, again. They don’t sit still. It reminds Jack of a former POW he knew, and the connection piques his curiosity. 

“I found you out in the snow,” he offers. The man’s face remains inscrutable. 

“Unconscious. Wearing gym clothes.” Still nothing. Jack sighs. “Do you make a habit of passing out in freezing temperatures? Because if I interrupted some sort of bizarre hobby, you have my apologies.”

The man’s body is littered with marks, all of them new. One of the wounds on his thigh still has stitches holding it together. The sight is so familiar that Jack has to look away, the memories of agonizing nights spent in the medical ward threatening to rise to the forefront of his mind.

“You a fighter?”

The man lifts his lip in a snarl, but doesn’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.”

Rising, Jack walks away from the bed, over to the little stove sitting in the corner. The fire is still going strong, so he slides the kettle over onto the burner. Tea will help. If anything, it’ll give him something to do while he tries to learn more about his guest.

He hears the bed creak, and a moment later, feels a pair of eyes on him. He finishes preparing his mug, and then turns, nonchalance forced, to see the man standing behind him, wrapped up in one of the quilts. In this light, his eyes look sunken and his face gaunt, like he’s been one the lean side of meals and sleep for a while. And it’s that fact that solidifies the idea in Jack’s head that this man isn’t a graduate, and he isn’t a searcher; he’s another escapee, another victim.

So he rolls up his sleeve and bares the tattoo on his wrist, holding it out in front of him so that the other man can see. He watches shock, confusion, and then something that looks a lot like fear flash over the man’s face, before he steels it to impassivity again. But Jack doesn’t miss the little step back the man takes, or the way his muscles tense up under the blanket, like he’s ready for a fight.

“Name’s Jack Morrison,” he says, pulling down his sleeve. “Relax. Not gonna be the one to drag you back. I got out, too.”

“Morrison?” The man’s voice is deep and rough, either from disuse or screaming, Jack doesn’t know. “Yeah. You were there. 76. They’ve got you up on the wall.”

Jack winces. They always liked his face, his blond hair and blue eyes and strong jaw. They took a number of pictures that weren’t for his file, but for recruiting, showing how good the program could be. Jack wonders about the stories they tell the new recruits about him, about why he’s not in the program anymore.

“I left,” Jack says, crossing his arms. “Withdrew consent.” He pauses, glancing up and down the other man’s body and thinking about the condition he found him in. “I’m guessing you didn’t get the same option.”

The man shakes his head. “I’m…” he pauses, biting his lip, before continuing. “I’m Reyes. Gabriel Reyes.” He closes his eyes, swaying a bit on his feet, and Jack doesn’t think about stepping forward and catching his arm, steadying him.

“Back to bed,” he says, and helps Gabriel back to the other room, laying him down and pulling the covers back over him. “Just rest, all right? We’ll talk more later. Right now, you’re safe. No one’s gonna find you here.”

It’s not strong reassurance, but it apparently does enough, because Gabriel nods and closes his eyes, and barely a minute passes before his breathing goes even and shallow.

Looking at him now, after hearing his voice and knowing his story, Jack realizes that Gabriel’s only a kid, maybe in his early twenties. Jack’s at least a decade older, a decade wiser, but the last ten years have apparently changed things in the facility if Gabriel had to run away in order to get out. Jack made a stupid mistake and suffered the consequences, however horrific, but Gabriel’s situation sounds different, and worse.

Jack runs a hand through his hair and sighs. It’s going to be a long few days.


	2. Scars

Gabriel wakes up later that night. Jack gives him tea and soup and watches as the man practically inhales the food. He’s starving, or close to it, so Jack makes a mental note to feed him again in a few hours, to help the recovery process and make sure the kid knows he’s safe and welcome. Because no matter how much Jack wants to be done with that part of his life, there’s no way in hell he’s going to turn away someone like Gabriel.

“Can’t offer you a warm shower,” Jack says, after Gabriel’s done eating. “But I can heat up some water for the bath, if you want to clean up.” 

Jack can see Gabriel considering it, weighing the pros and the cons, wondering if he trusts Jack enough to willingly put himself in a vulnerable position like that. Eventually, the desire to be clean outweighs the need to be watchful, so Gabriel nods and Jack puts on the kettle again.

Gabriel watches him the entire time, back pressed up against the wall. It’s a defensive position, and while Jack doesn’t blame him for being wary, the constant feeling of being watched is setting his own nerves on edge. The feeling lessens when they’re talking, so once the kettle is on, Jack goes bad to the bed, perching on the corner farthest from Gabriel.

“So,” he says, “how did they rope you into it?”

The younger man’s posture tightens as he goes tense. The question obviously hits a nerve, and Jack feels a moment of guilt, but the more he knows about Gabriel and the changes to the program, the safer they’ll be. They never tried to get Jack to return after his discharge, but they might not be so tolerant in Gabriel’s case. It all depends on what’s changed.

It takes a long moment, but eventually Gabriel sighs, his eyes closing and jaw clenching before he looks up at Jack. “They promised me money,” he says, and he’s backed up into the corner with his knees drawn up to his chest and he looks small, young. A little naive, even, though Jack knows that’s not the case. “For my mother, for her medical bills. Couldn’t afford them anymore. And they paid, they did, but the price…”

“It was more than you bargained for,” Jack finishes after a moment.

Gabriel nods in reply. He stays silent for another long moment, and then his eyes flicker up, meeting Jack’s. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” he says, and while his tone is flat, Jack senses the curiosity behind the facade. 

Standing, Jack pulls his shirt up, revealing a scar that goes from his hip to his collarbone. It’s ugly, raised and white around the edges, and knotted on the inside. It’s from one of the first “trials” they put him through, testing his ability to regenerate tissue. The trial had been successful, but he’d been left with the scar as a memento. 

Gabriel’s eyes travel up the length of Jack’s scar, unblinking. When he gets to the top of the scar, his eyes keep traveling, until he meets Jack’s eyes, nodding.

“Self-healing,” Jack says, casually, like he doesn’t remember impassive researchers watching him while he writhed in pain, his body mending bones and restringing ligaments between new muscles. He drops his shirt. “Only way to test for it was to make me heal myself.”

It looks like Gabriel wants to say more, to respond somehow to the fact that the long scar isn’t the only one on Jack’s chest, but before the can, the kettle starts to whistle. “Bath time,” Jack says, with a smile that’s a little more forced than it should be. He’s spent years trying to forget the hell they put him through. And now, through Gabriel, he’s reliving it.

But as he makes sure the bath water isn’t going to boil Gabriel alive, he realizes that it might be a good thing. He needs to process, needs to deal with the scars on his body and in his mind. 

And maybe Gabriel will be able to help him do that.

* * *

It turns out that a clean Gabriel is a happy Gabriel, and a happy Gabriel puts Jack at ease. They don’t talk much more, though, because as soon as Gabriel dries off, he passes out, sprawled over Jack’s little bed. And Jack isn’t used to sitting on his hands and waiting around so much, but he’s also a little wary of leaving Gabriel in the cabin by himself. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust the man (even though he’s not sure he does), but he also doesn’t want Gabriel to experience that brief moment of panic that always follows waking up somewhere unfamiliar. 

The more time passes, the more restless Jack gets, but it takes him a while to realize that it isn’t just because he’s not used to sitting around. There’s something off, and it’s making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, calling his attention to how the air isn’t quite right.

He hears the helicopter not long after that. 

The simple fact that he hasn’t heard _anything_ mechanical in a decade is enough to let him know that something is very wrong. And if it wasn’t, seeing Gabriel sit up abruptly, startled, fear in his eyes, is enough.

Their eyes meet across the room, and then Jack springs into action.

Twenty seconds later, they’re outside. Jack’s bug-out bag is over his shoulder, and his spare boots are on Gabriel’s feet. Their footprints are visible from the ground, but Jack hopes that they’ll have a decent head start by the time anyone gets to the house and discovers that they aren’t there. He’s just hoping it’s enough time, and that they won’t have anticipated any form of attempted escape. 

Their strides are long and quiet, so when Jack hears a rustle off to his left, he knows it’s not their fault. He’s got a hand on the gun at his hip before he even turns, and he’s leveled it at the shadowy figure that’s approaching before he’s fully taken a breath. He doesn’t shoot, though, because the form triggers a long-dormant memory that classifies the figure as friend, not foe. 

“Come with me.”

The female voice is rough, heavily accented, but Jack knows it, and it’s their only option right now. So he pushes Gabriel towards the woman and murmurs “Go,” in his ear. Thankfully, the other man offers no argument, and a moment later, they’re following Ana down the mountain.

 

Jck watches Gabriel assess Ana, wondering what conclusions he’s coming to. _He_ knows the sniper from cover to cover, or at least he used to; Ana’s an original, before even Jack’s time in the program. If he had to pick a “favorite” out of all of the instructors, he would pick her.

“How did you know?” he asks, a multitude of questions all wrapped up into one. How did she know where to find him? How did she know that they were coming after him? How did she get there in time?

Ana doesn’t answer, which isn’t surprising. But she does lead them down a steep slope until the snow peters away and all that’s left is mud mixed with layers of dead pine needles. And far more interesting than the change in terrain in the SUV that’s parked behind a group of trees, perfectly camouflaged.

“Get in,” Ana says, and they do.

* * *

Ana puts them up in an apartment in the wrong side of town, but it’s safe and untraceable, and while the showerhead is rusty, there’s still a shower. In addition, there’s a stash of guns in the bedroom closet and non-perishables in the cabinets. It’s the perfect place to lay low and figure out what happens next. 

But whatever is going to happen next, Ana isn’t going to be involved. Jack tries to get her to stay, because she obviously knows something about what’s going on and why this is happening after all these years. But she doesn’t. She leaves the key to the apartment in an ashtray on the counter and walks out the door without another word.

“Now what?” Gabriel asks, as soon as the door closes behind her. :What are we going to do?”

Jack turns and looks at him. In all likelihood, Gabriel is the cause of the raid, which makes Jack certain that the program has changed. Gabriel wasn’t released - he escaped, and now they want him back. 

“Now,” Jack says, after a long moment, “the war goes on.”


	3. Reaper

Ana disappears as quickly as she showed up, but the more Jack explores the apartment, the more he discovers that she hasn’t really gone anywhere. There’s decades worth of documents from the program, notes and medical records and blueprints, and all of them are organized methodically, showcasing a train of thought geared towards a takedown. The program’s weaknesses are highlighted and exposed, from little details like weaknesses in the building’s foundations to potential traitors within the organization. 

It’s a lot of information. In particular, it’s a lot of information that Jack doesn’t know what to do with. It’s clear that Ana is or was involved in some sort of attempt to destroy the program, but Jack’s not sure he wants to get involved. He just wants to live his life away from the people who ruined it.

But Gabriel isn’t satisfied with hiding out until it all blows over.

“They came after me,” he spits, and there’s a sort of self-righteous anger that Jack recognizes and empathizes with. “They’re not going to stop, are they? Fuck. _Fuck!_ ”

Jack watches as Gabriel runs a hand through his hair, pacing through the apartment like a caged animal. And in a way, he supposes, the comparison is valid: Gabriel is wild, trapped, and if the program wants to hunt him down, it’s likely he’s dangerous as well. But Jack’s not afraid of Gabriel. He is afraid, though, of what might happen to both of them if they don’t do anything.

“We’ll figure this out,” he says, voice even. 

Part of figuring “this” out, whatever it is, is going over the documents Ana has left for them. Jack, always the tactician, takes on the blueprints, which leaves Gabriel with the personnel files. After a few minutes, though, he wonders if they should have switched, because Gabriel is clutching a file, white-knuckled and shaky. The label on the file says “Reaper,” and Jack wonders, just for a moment, what the hell kind of codename that is, and what the hell Gabriel can do to warrant it. 

“Everything all right?” Jack asks, even if the answer is obviously a resounding no.

Gabriel glances up, startled, hesitating before nodding his head. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. He folds up the file, stuffing it inside his jacket. Jack’s jacket, really, but it looks better on Gabriel than it ever did on him. “Fine. Do we have any beer?”

Tossing the plans aside, Jack gets to his feet, going over to the refrigerator to check. “No beer,” he answers.

“Well, fuck that.”

Jack watches as Gabriel gets to his feet, pushing papers and folders aside. “I, for one, need beer if we’re going to do this,” the younger man says, and Jack hasn’t had a beer in… way too long.

“Beer is a fantastic idea.”

* * *

Beer was a terrible idea. 

Ana is going to kill them, Jack is certain, if the program’s goons don’t finish the job first. And right now, the second option seems a little more likely than the first, because they had barely stepped into the corner store before the first gunshot rang out. 

Gabriel hits the floor, hard, and Jack follows a split-second after, wincing as a glass door explodes a few feet to his left. He glances at Gabriel to ask if he’s all right, but the man is clutching at his stomach, hard, and Jack can see red seeping between his fingers. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. And then, “Backdoor. We need to go, now.”

Gabriel bats away the hand Jack offers him, pushing himself up to his knees by himself. The gunshot looks like a through-and-through, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s Gabriel’s blood dripping onto the floor. They need to move, fast. 

They make it to the end of the aisle before they’re spotted. The man is carrying an assault rifle, and in the same moment he raises it, Jack grabs Gabriel’s shoulder and forcibly pulls him towards the back of the store. 

The gun goes off somewhere in the middle of it all.

Gabriel cries out, but Jack doesn’t stop, _can’t_ stop, because there are sirens in the distance and he’s more than happy leaving their attacker to deal with that. A brief glance back tells Jack that Gabriel’s bleeding from half-a-dozen shots to his abdomen, and Jack’s not even sure how he’s still standing, much less stumbling alongside him as they make their escape, but he doesn’t stop to question it. They only stop when they’re sure they won’t be found, down a dark alley and out of sight of the street.

“Do you need…?” Jack starts, but when he turns to face Gabriel, his voice trails off. Gabriel is gone, his clothes in a pile on the ground. And in his place is a vaguely human-shaped cloud of black smoke.

Jack is sure, now, that what they did to Gabriel is multitudes worse than what they did to him. Because while Jack can feel every cell repairing itself, every centimeter of bone knitting back together, at least he’s still human. But they changed the very essence of Gabriel, because the black smoke floating over where the man used to stand is definitely not human. Jack feels his stomach turn.

Bullets fall to the floor, landing softly on the pile of clothes, and Gabriel materializes once again. He grimaces, but when he turns his face up to look at Jack, his expression goes stony, on guard.

“Like what you see?” Gabriel bites, his Reaper’s voice rough and harsh. He make no move to pick up his clothes, but Jack isn’t looking below the belt. He’s too busy searching Gabriel’s chest for the wounds that should be there, the bullet holes that should be marring his dark skin. But they’re gone. Every trace of injury is gone, and all that Jack can think is that in the years after he left, they must have perfected the self-healing enhancement.

“Useful trick,” he says after a moment. “So you’re not going to bleed out on me?”

It’s like someone cut the strings holding Gabriel up. The man’s face goes slack, relaxed, and he nods, shoulders caving in on themselves a little as his whole bravado crumbles. “Not this time,” he answers. “You’re stuck with me for a little while longer, Morrison.”

Tentatively, Jack steps forward, reaching out and laying a hand on Gabriel’s bare shoulder. “Good,” he says firmly, and doesn’t miss the way that Gabriel leans into the touch, just a little. 

“Come on,” Jack says, quietly. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

The apartment has running water, and Jack hasn’t had running water in a decade or so, but he still pushes Gabriel towards the bathroom first. The other man looks exhausted, almost dead on his feet, and Jack has waiting long enough for a hot shower that a few more minutes won’t kill him. But when he goes to close the bathroom door behind him, to give Gabriel some privacy, the other man grabs his arm and pulls him in.

“No use waiting,” he says, reaching in to turn on the tap. The roughness of his voice has lessened some, retreated back into whatever corner of his mind Gabriel keeps Reaper in. Jack can’t say that he minds. “No telling how long hot water’ll last in a shithole like this.”

It wouldn’t be the first time Jack showered with another man. During the program, the early stages, all the participants quickly lost any sense of shyness. The locker rooms had open showers, and after trials or tests, they all just wanted to clean up as quickly as possible.

But Gabriel isn’t one of them, and Jack doesn’t want his own attraction to the man to cause any issues. He’s still debating on what he’s going to say when two strong hands snake up under his shirt, lifting it up and over his head.

Startled, he meets Gabriel’s eyes. The man just smirks and says, “Move your ass, old man,” before stripping down himself and stepping into the shower. Involuntarily, Jack’s eyes drop to Gabriel’s ass, his mouth going a little dry.

The shower isn’t that big. There’s room for both of them, just barely, but there won’t be any hiding if something starts happening down south. But he follows Gabriel inside anyway, because the promise of hot water is too alluring and the temptation of seeing Gabriel slick with water is no small one.

Gabriel leans up against the wall, eyes closed, making more than enough room for Jack. But as soon as the older man shuts the door, he feels a tentative hand on his arm, and when he turns, dark brown eyes are staring him straight in the face. And maybe it’s obvious, but Jack remembers the months right after he left the facility and how the only thing that mattered was that he got to choose was he did. There were no forced, invasive physicals, and it was up to Jack to use (or not use) the abilities the experiments had granted him. He remembers walking out of a crappy hotel room at two in the morning because hands around his wrists sent him flashing back to being restrained during one of the grislier medical procedures. 

So he reaches up to push a few strands of wet hair away from Gabriel’s face and doesn’t move any closer, but doesn’t step away, either. He knows this has to be the other man’s choice, for both their sanities. And when Gabriel looks at him, forehead wrinkling with confusion, Jack gently brushes a thumb over his cheek and asks, “What do you want?”

A shudder ripples through Gabriel’s body. He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into Jack’s hand, and Jack lets him, okay with giving whatever contact Gabriel is okay with. The facility’s operators tended to avoid kind touches, at least when Jack was there, and he suspects the same is true for Gabriel. 

“Can I…?” Gabriel starts, but trails off before he can finish the question. And then with a surge of determination that Jack can almost feel, the other man steps forward until he’s leaning against Jack’s chest, skin to skin with him. The abrupt contact pulls a shaky sigh out of Jack’s throat, and after a moment, he lets his arms settle around Gabriel’s waist. Turning his head, he presses his mouth to Gabriel’s wet hair, and it’s not so much of a kiss as it is a reassurance that this is okay, and that Jack is on board with almost anything that Gabriel wants to come next. 

Gabriel’s fingers are digging into Jack’s shoulders, hard enough that he’s aware of the sensation, but not hard enough to cause pain. He’s hanging onto Jack like the man is his last lifeline, and Jack remembers being desperate like that, in another life. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “What do you want?”

“You,” Gabriel blurts, but Jack doesn’t see embarrassment when he looks up at the man’s face. All that’s there is determination and the first hints of arousal in Gabriel’s blown pupils. And, yeah, he’s a pretty picture with droplets of water falling down the side of his face and over his chest, so Jack doesn’t feel guilty for the fact that his own dormant sex drive is coming back online. 

Slowly, he slides his hands over Gabriel’s hips, reveling in the feeling of smooth skin over tight muscles. He takes his time, brushing his thumbs over Gabriel’s hip bones, tracing the defined ‘v’ of the muscles that point down to a patch of dark, curly hair. Jack lets his fingers slide down there, and then around Gabriel’s cock, giving it a long, sure stroke. 

“Oh, _fuck_.”

Gabriel’s already hard in his hand, and his voice is ragged. It’s not rough like his Reaper’s voice, but it presses all the right triggers in Jack’s head and makes his hips jerk forward of their own accord. For a moment, he imagines bending Gabriel over the bed outside the bathroom and sliding into him, knowing he’ll be tight, knowing that he’ll take it and love it and they’ll fall into bed afterward, exhausted and covered in each other. 

But hopefully, all that can come later. Right now, Jack is okay with being pressed up against Gabriel’s slick body and jerking him off and drinking in all the little pleased sounds the man in making.

“Look at you,” Jack murmurs, pressing close and rubbing against the hard line of Gabriel’s thigh. And Gabriel fucking _whimpers_ , head knocking back against the wall of the shower as he bares his neck in one fluid line. He’s gorgeous, perfect, and Jack says as much, punctuating it by brushing his thumb over the head of Gabriel’s cock. 

“Fuck, Jack,” Gabriel breathes, and then his scrambling hands find their way around Jack’s aching length. Between the sudden friction and hearing his name fall from Gabriel’s lips like a whispered prayer, Jack’s knees go weak. He slams his hand against the wall behind Gabriel, just to steady himself, and inadvertently, gets himself about an inch from Gabriel’s mouth. And then it’s so easy to just lean in and connect them at the lips, surging up into the kiss as Gabriel’s grip tightens and falters and resumes, more sure, steadier.

Jack’s hand slides from the wall to the back of Gabriel’s neck, pulling him in closer. They’re pressed together from head to toe, and the closeness and the friction and the heat of Gabriel’s body and the shower has Jack much closer to the edge than he should be. It’s desperate, _he’s_ desperate, and someone else’s touch after so long without is killing him in all the best ways. Turning his head, Jack presses his face into the crook of Gabriel’s neck bites on the tendon there as he feels his own orgasm surging up inside him.

The sound Gabriel makes at the bite is sinful, and he jerks into Jack’s hand, arching up away from the shower wall and spurting into the space between them. Jack follows half a stroke later, holding onto Gabriel like his life depends on it.

They stay there for a long moment, panting and breathing in the steam. Jack kisses the mark he’s left on Gabriel’s neck and makes the other man shiver pleasantly against him, and the teasing friction is just on the right side of too much, too soon. 

“Fuck,” Gabriel murmurs, and Jack just laughs under his breath, because everything he’s feeling can be summed up in that singe word. 

“How about that shower, now?”  



End file.
